Gladwyne turned to Lisle with a slight movement of his shoulders which was somehow expressive of half-indulgent contempt. "You're Nasmyth's friend from Canada? I guess you don't understand these things, but you might have made the birds break back," he said. "However, we must get under cover now--there's your butt. I'll see you later." He turned away and Lisle took up his station behind the wall of turf pointed to. He had once upon a time been forcibly rebuked for his clumsiness at some unaccustomed task in the Canadian bush and had not resented it, but the faint movement of Gladwyne's shoulders had brought a warmth to his face. The girl noticed this. "Clarence can be unpleasant when he likes, but there are excuses for him," she said. "A day's shooting is one of the things we take seriously, and manners are not at a higher premium here than I suppose they are in the wilds." Lisle made no response, and there was silence on the sun-steeped moor until a row of small dark objects skimming the crest of the ridge above became silhouetted against the sky. Then a gun cracked away to the right and in another moment a dropping fusillade broke out. CHAPTER VIII GLADWYNE RECEIVES A SHOCK It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and Gladwyne's somewhat noisy guests were scattered about his house and the terrace in front of it. Several of them had gathered in the hall, and Bella Crestwick, Lisle's companion on the moors, stood, cigarette in hand, with one foot on the old-fashioned hearth-irons, frankly discussing him. A few birch logs glowed behind the bars, for on those high uplands the autumn nights were chilly, but the wide door stood open, revealing a pale green band of light behind the black hills, and allowing the sweet, cool air of the moors to flow in. The girl had gained something by the change from her outdoor attire to the clinging evening dress, but it was with characteristic unconcern that she disregarded the fact that the thin skirt fell well away from one shapely ankle effectively displayed by a stocking of the finest texture. "The man," she said, "is a bit of a Puritan. They still live over there, don't they? His idea of English women is evidently derived from what his father told him, or from early-Victorian literature. I'm inclined to believe I shocked him." "It's highly probable," laughed a man lounging near. "Still, I believe the descendants of the folks you mention live three thousand miles from his country, in the neighborhood of the Atlantic shore. One wouldn't fancy that you'd like Puritans." There was nothing offensive in the words, but his glance was a little too bold and too familiar, and Bella looked at him with a gleam of malice in her eyes.